


The Prince and the Heiress BVDN August 2018

by rockykelboa



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 17:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15868527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockykelboa/pseuds/rockykelboa
Summary: Just a bit of brain vom for the 2018 Bulma/Vegeta Drabble Night. :)The theme was dance, and the prompts were: matador, rhythm, beneath the chandelier, salsa, it takes two, and ballet shoes.





	The Prince and the Heiress BVDN August 2018

  
**Matador**

A gust of air lifted her skirt as she stepped out onto the balcony, and it was either flash the entire gala with her (albeit cute) black lacy briefs or lose the bubbly. A moment of instinct let the flute shatter against the marble tiles, the noise of it drowned out by the wind, the music, and the babble of planetary diplomats and stuffy patricians clinking glasses of their own. 

“Oh, hi there.” 

Bulma almost didn’t see the man, though it was no surprise that the sullen prince of Vegetasei was seeking refuge on the veranda, staring out at the storm as if beckoning it to him. His red cape lifted and swirled around him, like a matador teasing a bull. 

Though he said nothing to her greeting, didn’t even turn around from where he sat on the thick stone banister. Ass. 

“Hello!? You deaf?” 

“My father’s inside,” he grumbled. “Take your idle chit-chat up with him.”

Tch. Whatever. She wasn’t out here to talk anyway. Bulma rolled her eyes and pulled a cigarette from her tin. Though lighting it in this weather was proving to be a challenge. She pressed her back against the stone wall to hold her skirt in place and cupped a hand around the thing to block the wind. Grunting in frustration as she frantically clicked the stupid lighter over and over with no luck.

“Goddamnit!” 

A soft, yellow light appeared in front of her face from… from his finger? The prince wasn’t looking at her, just held out a digit lit with ki. 

“You’re welcome,” he said.

 

**Rhythm**

Lightning snaked through the clouds and thunder crackled in the distance in rhythm. The sticky, swirling air snuffed out her cigarette more than once, forcing her to ask the prince for the favor to light it again. 

If the old men in the smoking room weren’t such pervs, she would have joined them, but being called sweetheart and having her ass patted by some whisky drunk emissary twice her age was far more grating than begging the petulant prince for a flame.  
“Sorry,” she quipped, “But can you?” A sheepish smile lifted the corner of her mouth.

With a groan, the prince finally turned his attention away from the dark, flickering clouds, hopping down from the rails to stand before her. 

“No. You’re an addict,” he said. He grabbed the stub from her mouth and tossed it over his shoulder. 

“Tch. That was my last one, asshat,” Bulma whined. How else did people expect her to get through the drudgery of a diplomatic ball without getting blind drunk and making a fool of herself? (yeah… that’s happened). 

Scowling at the prince, she felt a droplet hit her cheek. They both tipped their heads up to the sky as the clouds rolled overhead and burst wide open in punishing waves of heavy rain.

 

**Beneath the chandelier**

“Fuck!” 

She couldn’t have darted back into the ballroom faster if it was acid rain. The expensive lace and chiffon of her dress wasn’t exactly meant to hold up in a torrential downpour. Not giving a shit that she didn’t bid adieu to the prince properly, she ran, blindly and shrieking, for the safety of the castle. 

What she hadn’t expected was the prince at her heels, his hand clasped at her elbow, spinning her round to face him beneath the chandelier in the center of the dance floor. What the hell did he want? His expression was unreadable, his thick brows bent over the cold, black orbs those Saiyans passed-off as eyes.

“You look better in the light,” he remarked, with that dry, callous tone. 

Ass.

“Well, you look scarier, if that’s possible.” 

The prince smiled, darkly, as if that was a compliment in his book.

"Are you asking me to dance or something? I'm drenched, and I would like to use the ladies--"

"Do you want a tour?" he interrupted.

Bulma stilled her tongue, eying the man suspiciously. Prince Vegeta was not exactly known for his hospitality. She doubted if he'd given anyone a tour of his castle that didn't end in the dungeons.

"Umm..."

He merely huffed, flaring his nostrils as he rolled his eyes around the room and dragged her away from the brightly lit ballroom and down the dark corridors of his home.

**Salsa**

“Gods, that’s disgusting.” Bulma fought the urge to vomit.

The long tapestries that lined the throne room depicted the most brutal battles of the Saiyans’ long, warring history, each one covered in the vivid tales of death -- ki blasts ripping their opponents into particles, their guts sprayed over the linens like chunky salsa.

“Is there anything nice to look at? Do you have a library, or art that isn’t so … so murdery?”

“Like what?”

“Like landscapes, animals, foliage, something like that?”

His eyebrows lifted like he was actually considering her request, racking his vile monkey brain for the fairer fare of life, if it existed in this morbid hellhole.

“There’s a spa in the training wing.” 

A spa huh? Bulma's mind flashed through images of dimly lit marble, lavender scented candles, soaps and bath bombs. Eeesh, was this a tour, or was this an invitation? He said it so casually though, as if a private, luxury spa didn't scream sex -- as if it was the same as showing her gut-strewn tapestries or an ordinary library.

Goddammit, Bulma, you're here on behalf of Earth, a delegate, you're not some kami-damned slut... not today!

**It takes two**

 

Bleh, the thick stink of sweat soaked into the pores of the training room walls -- an empty vast, space that bounced her voice off its rocky facade. 

“Hello!” she shouted... loudly, if only to notify the guards that they were in here. She wasn’t exactly comfortable being alone with the universe’s most deadly warrior, even if he was a prince. This entire trip was meant to smooth over their relations with the Saiyans -- a tit for tat, essentially, technology for protection. It took two to protect the universe from the threat of war. But on his end, the man had proved nothing but hostile; dark and frightening in every meeting between their world leaders, he soured their relations.

His father proved more diplomatic, hence why he no longer bothered to bring his son along to the meetings.

“Are you coming?” the prince scoffed, as if she was wasting all the precious time he required to brood.

A clap of thunder quaked through the hall, and Bulma yelped, found herself attached to the prince’s arm. But he was... laughing?

“What’s the matter, earthling? Are you frightened?” he smiled, the white points of his canines lit menacingly with each flash of light that breached the windows of this space.

Bulma swallowed. She wasn’t afraid, not of him, and not of a little thunder either.

“No!” she scoffed. Smoothing out her dress, she stood tall to face him. “You wanna fight?”

The prince cocked his head, his grin spreading further across his lips. He didn’t answer right away, chose to stare at her with an impish grin. “What the hell,” he shrugged.

Bulma backed away and bent into a stance that mimicked all the fighters she grew up around, squatting with her hands lifted before her face. The prince didn't move, just crossed his arms with his head tilted, his lips pressed together as if trying to stifle a laugh.

"What are you waiting for? Come at me!"

"As you wish," he hummed.

 

**Ballet shoes**

What was she expecting? That he’d just feign a fight, just for her, like she was a child? Of course not! Even if he was fighting a child, he wouldn’t soften the blow. Hard and fast, her body hit the tiled floor, knocking the wind clean from her lungs. Holy shit! She was going to die!

“Stop! ...Uncle! … Uncle!” she gasped with sharp sips of air.

“Who?” The prince curled a lip and lifted himself from her frame, his hands set beside her shoulders, brows twisted in confusion.

“Uncle… it means… I give up,” she breathed.

His features slacked, drooped in a look of baffled disappointment, like he was immune to the word surrender. He was frozen in place, as if her declaration was some ultimate battle move; like some mage, she managed to nullify the opponent with a word.

“You wish to stop? Already?” he finally asked.

“Unless you’d prefer to kill me.” Bulma smirked, with a small buck against his hips.

The prince's eyes popped wide before they skimmed down her frame, tracing the tight bust of her dress, the curves hidden under the layers of tulle that shaped her skirt. 

“Not really," he muttered, his gravelly voice somewhat hitched. She caught him lick his upper lip as he pressed himself upright. He made no move to dislodge himself from her hips. Gloved hands gripped her thighs and traced their way down the fabrics that covered her legs, lifting each foot to slip the ballet flats from her feet. 

The prince smirked, “Do you surrender now?”


End file.
